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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395945">The Utter Rudeness</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliottRook/pseuds/ElliottRook'>ElliottRook</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Human, Customer Service, First Kiss, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Not Britpicked, Paper Route, Religious Family, also vaguely Christmas-y, but it's very very very vague, no violence, the decor is up but it's not A Christmas Fic, unbeta'd: we fall like Crowley, wounded pride</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:27:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,420</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395945</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliottRook/pseuds/ElliottRook</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A short, fluffy, 1967 misadventure of teenage Crowley on his paper route.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Utter Rudeness</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a self-indulgent bit of fluff based on a true story told to me by @OlivierHennis on twitter, here, while commiserating about delivery jobs<br/>https://twitter.com/OlivierHennis/status/1302159014495748096</p><p>"I don't know what you look like so I'm just picturing this happening to 60's Crowley," I said (referring to their pfp on twitter at the time of posting this). And then I pointed out that Aziraphale would make him cocoa.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Tyler said he didn't get his paper.”</p><p>Crowley looked up from the clipboard indignantly. “I beg your pardon?” He was only at the office to sign off on the day's work. He'd delivered all his papers and, after trudging all morning through a few inches of snow, the bottom of his jeans wet despite platformed shoes, he was ready to go home. It should've been a quick in-and-out without a word from his boss.<br/><br/>“Mister, uh...” Hastur looked down at a note, hastily scribbled on small notepad. “R.P. Tyler. Eighteen-eighty-seven Oakwood Drive. That's your route, yeah?”</p><p>Crowley nodded. “Yeah, and I gave him a paper today.”</p><p>Hastur shrugged. “He says you didn't. Take him another one.”</p><p>Crowley dropped the clipboard onto the table with a loud clatter. “Are you kidding? He can't go without for one day even if I <em>had</em> missed him? I've never missed a paper, and I gave him one today anyway—can't he just—” He let out a frustrated groan.</p><p>“It's almost Christmas,” Hastur pointed out. “A lot of people will be giving you tips, you know. Leave a card for you with a bit of cash inside. And they'll especially do that for good customer service. But only if you actually <em>give</em> good customer service.”</p><p>Crowley groaned and pulled at his hair. “Oi. <em>Fine</em>. But only for the tip!” He went and grabbed a fresh copy of the paper off the nearest stack and stomped out of the warehouse.</p><p>When he'd taken the job, it had seemed so much easier. It was carefree summertime, and he could do the deliveries on his bike. He hadn't thought through how much more of a nuisance it was going to be once school was in, and he had to have it all finished before seven AM, and even more once the snow fell and he had to <em>walk</em> it. R.P. Tyler was notorious for filing complaints, he hadn't “liked the look” of the new paper boy, but Crowley wasn't about to change for some cranky old git with an anxious wiener dog.</p><p>The job was funding the upkeep on Crowley's Beatles-style haircut, and his new, very mature, all-black wardrobe, and designer sunglasses, but those changes were because Crowley thought they were cool. R.P. Tyler had complained about all of it, but the paper didn't have a formalized dress code for the kids delivering papers, so there was nothing <em>stopping</em> Crowley from doing his route in a black turtleneck and wide-lapeled black blazer. If anything, he thought R.P. Tyler should be <em>grateful</em> to have a paper boy who dressed so professionally.</p><p>Crowley cursed R.P. Tyler and his lying, complaining arse the whole way back to Oakwood Drive, and he very nearly considered tossing the paper in the bin and just going home after all, but he couldn't risk it. He wanted a good reputation, he wanted to keep the job. Money had brought freedom, and apparently there might be Christmas tips. Worth sticking around for, at least until he'd saved up enough for a car—even more freedom.</p><p>When Crowley got there, he realized the snow on the lawn and the walkway was still unbroken. Not a single footprint. No one had even come down to check the mailbox! He opened it up, and sure enough there was the paper he had delivered barely an hour before. He let out a low growl of frustration. Bastard!</p><p>Crowley stomped up the hill angrily, up to the iron fence, cursing under his breath. The gate was locked when Crowley tried to open it to ring the doorbell. Paranoid bastard. Then again, with the old man being so crotchety, Crowley was sure Tyler's house actually <em>was</em> at risk of being egged, or something. He moved along the fence to see if there was another way to get the occupants' attention, and leaned against the fence, trying to get closer to a likely window to rap against.</p><p>And of course, as the cherry on top of his miserable morning, somehow the iron fence was rusty and decrepit enough that it snapped. His nearly seventeen years flashed behind his eyes before Crowley found himself safely enough in the hedge, with the snow that had been picturesquely on top of it now wet and cold on top of him.<br/><br/>The front door opened, and R.P. Tyler himself stared at the teenager in his hedge, confused.</p><p>Crowley lifted one arm, holding up the paper. “Brought you <em>another</em>,” he said. He rolled onto his stomach to stand up, and turned to look at Tyler, mouth pressed in a thin line, glasses askance, thoroughly unimpressed. Clumps of snow fell off him and back onto the hedge as he came to the door.</p><p>Tyler cleared his throat. “I'll be speaking to your boss about the fence,” he said, snatched the paper, and went back inside before the yipping, cowering dog at his feet could get out.</p><p>Crowley stalked back down the hill, swearing even more than before.</p><hr/><p>After he'd gone <em>back</em> to the office to sign off on his hours, <em>again</em>, though—Crowley didn't go home. He was already out and he was already wet and if he went home he'd just be getting dry and then getting wet again. Hardly seemed worth it.</p><p>So that was how Aziraphale ended up answering the door to a rather bedraggled-looking Crowley, just in time for lunch.</p><p>“Oh, my dear, what happened?” he asked, and Crowley only grumbled in response to the fuss. Aziraphale ushered him inside.</p><p>Soon enough, Aziraphale had made it all better. He'd found a pair of his sister's jeans that fit Crowley well enough (she wasn't home, who could object?), a warm and fuzzy pair of socks, and while his jumper was oversized on Crowley it was warm and comfortable. Crowley's own clothes were going through the dryer. There was soup simmering on the stove that would be ready soon, and Aziraphale made cocoa for the two of them and they settled on the sofa together so Crowley could share the whole miserable story.</p><p>Aziraphale let him rant, sipping at his cocoa.</p><p>“Can you believe—the utter <em>rudeness</em>, angel, it was sheer bloody <em>laziness</em> and he got <em>Hastur</em> in on it, no need to get him involved!”</p><p>“He probably didn't want to risk slipping down the hill,” Aziraphale pointed out. “With the snow.”</p><p>Crowley rolled his eyes. “Then teach the damn dog to fetch!” he said. “Or flag me down when I come round the first time! Don't phone in a complaint to the boss when I can handle it!”</p><p>Aziraphale patted his arm, and it only called Crowley's attention to the fact that they were sitting there in nearly matching jumpers, warm and thick with cables. Aziraphale had given Crowley the oatmeal-colored one, since he didn't have anything dark and it was the least colorful one on hand. It felt like a cheesy Christmas movie, especially with the way Aziraphale's blue jumper made his eyes pop, and the fairy lights over their head were tinting his near-white hair blue, red, and green. Despite Crowley having lost his dignity earlier that morning, they were in the middle of quite a magical moment.</p><p>Crowley groaned, but his frustration wasn't stemming from R.P. Tyler anymore. “Angel, you—you—“ What could he say? That Aziraphale was too close? That he needed to stop? Because that was the last thing Crowley actually wanted.</p><p>“I think you should stop worrying about him,” Aziraphale said, soothingly. “Your boss already knows he complains about trivial things. He won't hold it against you. And it's hardly like you'll have this job forever. Someday we'll live in the city, we'll go to uni, maybe, settle in where people just buy their newspapers from machines on street corners.”</p><p>“We will?” Crowley asked, not sure where this was coming from.</p><p>“No one as posh as you is going to stay in Tadfield forever,” Aziraphale said. “And I'll be happier in the city, too.”</p><p>Crowley had considered it in recent years. Of course <em>he</em> was going to live in London, but he'd never been quite sure how to broach the topic with his best friend, nor how to beg him to come along. He'd had no idea Aziraphale had already decided to go. He didn't think Aziraphale would like the bustle of London.</p><p>“There's Royal Albert Hall, and Tate Gallery, and so many <em>restaurants</em>,” Aziraphale pointed out, apparently sensing Crowley's surprise.</p><p>Ah. Right. The culture. Crowley nodded. “You've planned this all out?” he asked.</p><p>Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “Well—you should know.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I went to visit Grandfather.” Crowley nodded. Aziraphale was close with Aziraphale Senior, actually his great-grandfather, who had outlived most of his children, and was pushing one hundred. The two of them shared a taste in music and books, and Aziraphale gladly kept up with him, checking on how things were going in the convalescent home where the elder lived. “He's going to leave me the shop,” Aziraphale said.</p><p>Crowley gasped. The elder Fell owned the whole building outright. The third and fourth floors were rented out to some businesses, but the main floor had been a used bookstore once (and certainly would be again in the future, under Aziraphale's attentions). “So—“ Crowley tilted his head.</p><p>“So as sad as it'll be to lose him, I'll never have to worry about making rent,” Aziraphale said. “There's a flat just over the shop. I'll still rent out the upper floors, and that'll see to everything I need.” He elbowed Crowley gently. “And the flat's easily big enough for two.”</p><p>Crowley nearly choked, even though his cocoa was nowhere near his mouth. “Angel?”</p><p>Aziraphale smiled. “I wouldn't want to go it alone, really,” he said. “The city. I think you'll adjust easier than I will. And haven't you mentioned getting a car? For whatever I might not be able to get to with the buses?”</p><p>“You really <em>have</em> planned this all out!” Crowley snapped. “You're just assuming I'll want to—to—to settle in forever. Maybe I want to explore, move around a little, I don't even know if I'm going to uni yet—I haven't decided <em>anything</em> beyond getting a car.” That wasn't quite true, he didn't want to be anywhere but London, but he sort of resented not being consulted.</p><p>“So <em>do</em> that,” Aziraphale said. “And you'd always have the shop to come back to.”</p><p>Crowley didn't have a good retort. It was an amazing offer, even if Aziraphale wasn't his best friend, and he wanted to—only he wasn't sure how long they could be <em>that</em> close without his exploding, one way or another. “You're sure?” Crowley finally asked. “You'd want me around that much?”</p><p>Aziraphale set his empty mug aside, glanced out the window at the driveway, and then leaned in to press a gentle kiss to Crowley's cheek. “So long as you could stand me,” he said, suddenly bashful.</p><p>Crowley turned to stare at him, completely overwhelmed. Aziraphale, who he'd known for as long as he could remember, had never in all their years hinted—well, Crowley had been keeping things to himself, too. His mother had never been quiet about how she felt about his best friend's favorite haunt being in Soho, even if it was just a plain old bookshop. Aziraphale's parents were even less understanding, generally. So he couldn't blame Aziraphale for keeping it quiet.<br/><br/>The processing for Crowley to get from A to B left him quiet too long. “Sorry,” Aziraphale breathed, eyes down, and he moved to grab his mug and stand up and leave and—</p><p>Crowley grabbed his arm and pulled him back down to the sofa. “Don't you dare be sorry,” he said. “Don't you <em>dare</em>.” He cupped Aziraphale's cheek, turning his head to face him, and he crashed his lips to Aziraphale's. Aziraphale had the audacity to <em>whimper</em> and grab the front of his borrowed jumper, curling closer.</p><p>“S'more like it,” Crowley said, when he pulled away. “Right, then. We'll live over the shop. You'll need someone to reach the top shelves,” he teased. What other future was there than with Aziraphale? He didn't have nearly as much planned, but they could figure it out, together.</p><p>Aziraphale playfully batted his arm. “Hush. Nobody else knows, of course. What Grandfather said, or—or that I—I'm—“ He couldn't quite put the words to it yet.</p><p>“That you're in love with me?” Crowley asked. “I can keep a secret, angel. Long as I need to. No need to make things weird with your family.” Weird was putting it politely, Aziraphale's family didn't even like their being <em>friends</em>, Crowley was sure things would be bad if Aziraphale tried to tell them they were more. It wasn't that long—they'd be out of school in a year and a few months. “I'll still be around when you get away. We'll fit right in, in Soho. It'll all be just fine.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiled. “Yeah, that I'm in love with you,” he repeated. That was so much easier than putting any kind of name to what that meant.</p><p>Crowley slipped his arm around Aziraphale's shoulders, thinking back over a lifetime of memories, some of them suddenly seeming stained red as he realized what had slipped by his notice all that time. Little gestures, meaningful glances—Aziraphale had tried to clue him in all along. 'Live with me' seemed as good of a way to bring it out in the open as any. “I'm in love with you, too, angel,” he said, quietly. “It'll be us against the world. On our own side with each other.” Crowley had always been a fighter, and of course he'd protect his angel.<br/><br/>Aziraphale was content to lay his head on Crowley's shoulder. “Sounds like the perfect team, love.”</p><p>“Could've told me, you know,” Crowley said. “Would've kissed you anytime.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiled. “It just finally seemed like the <em>right</em> time,” he said. “Now—now that I know there's a future for us. That I have a way out. And—I was going to wait to bring it up, but you seemed like you could use some good news,” he explained.</p><p>Crowley scoffed. “I would've helped you get out if that's all it was—“ He was cut off by a timer in the kitchen, and Aziraphale hopped up and ran away.<br/><br/>“Soup's done!” Aziraphale called. “Come have something to eat.”</p><p>Crowley decided it was worth getting soaked in the snow, when there was someone waiting to kiss it better.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Not Britpicked, so if I missed something please tell me</p></blockquote></div></div>
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